


here again

by Dee_Laundry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Sherlock Holmes, Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Post-Reichenbach, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sequel, Sub John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: A sequel to the Explicit fic "I'm here to be used" by OfWilsonDreams, which should be read first.Sherlock Holmes blows John's world apart again.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	here again

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'm here to be used](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020820) by [OfWilsonDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfWilsonDreams/pseuds/OfWilsonDreams). 



> With thanks to OfWilsonDreams, for creating the original and inviting a sequel.

It was in a little room, just steps from the altar where John would get married to Mary, just moments before John would get married to Mary, that Sherlock Holmes blew his world apart again.

Sherlock had just finished adjusting John’s tie, hands still on the knot. John was looking at nothing, focused inward, thinking how the pleasant weather outside matched his mood, satisfied and warm and something that could probably be called happy, and so he missed the changing of Sherlock’s expression that must have presaged his words.

“Do you remember your safeword, John?”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s even as his body jerked back. Sherlock’s hands fell away, but his eyes stayed trained on John.

John stepped back, one step, two, three, as far as he could go in this suddenly stifling room. “You can’t _say_ that to me, Sherlock. I’m getting married.”

“Your impending nuptials could not in any way be more obvious; no need to say it—oh.” Sherlock dropped his gaze. “It wasn’t an opening step, John, just a question. Obviously the wrong one. I should’ve asked, does Mary know your safeword?”

No. It was— no. Sherlock could not be bringing this up now, not after two and a half years of nothing. Two years of Sherlock being dead and six months of John convincing himself he must have just dreamed the blowjobs and cuffs and shackles and dildos and breeding stand, because Sherlock never once… 

And now, it was— Now Sherlock was— Sherlock was sounding solicitous, like he _cared_ , the way a friend would care, a best friend, just a best friend who was never anything but.

“Why are you asking this now?” John demanded. “Six months and you haven’t breathed a word about this. Not a word! Not a tone, not a look.”

Sinking into the lone chair in the room, a high-backed ornately carved wooden thing, Sherlock shook his head. “ _Once_ a tone and a look, but the headbutt you gave me in return demonstrated conclusively your thoughts on re-opening the matter.”

“Head— In the kebab place, the night you came back?” _You’ve missed this_ , Sherlock had said, but John had thought he’d meant the cases. _The thrill,_ he’d said, _blood pumping, the two of us…_

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed; he had been talking about— “And so with that matter set aside, we went on, as we’d been in the beginning: the detective and his blogger, no longer flatmates but still friends. _Best_ friends, you said, and I was stunned to find that although I do not, as you know, do relationships, I am capable of love. When it’s you.”

John’s knees were threatening to give out; he pressed his back into the wall and clutched the chair rail for support.

“And,” Sherlock continued, “thus I feel compelled to ensure that you have everything you need. Mary has proven herself eminently suitable, with just this one piece undetermined. Does she use you, John? Have you shown her how to use you?”

A wave of revulsion ran through John from head to toe. “No!” he shouted, and then lowered his voice. This was a conversation that no one else could hear. “No, _God_ , that? No. Never. We don’t—” He took a breath that did absolutely nothing to quell the tension inside him. “With Mary, it’s normal.”

“She’s not virginal, John; she’s not pure. You won’t corrupt her by telling her what you need.” 

Jaw clenched, John drew himself up to his full height. “That’s not what it is.”

As Sherlock looked at him, head tilted, eyes intensely focused, the tension tightened, compressing everything inside of John to the size of a single molecule.

“Then why—”

The molecule exploded. “Because I’m yours!”

In the room’s sudden silence, Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

Holding John’s gaze, Sherlock resettled himself in the chair, which, with its high back and intricate carvings and very Sherlock-ish occupant, was looking more and more like a throne. “Oh,” Sherlock continued. “I’ve looked at this the wrong way, haven’t I? Seen but not observed.”

“You can’t—”

“Poor pig.”

A shudder six months gone but never quite forgotten rolled through the deepest recesses of John.

“Poor little pig has had to do without for so long.”

There was still some part of him fighting; he’d worked so hard with what he had with Mary, so hard to make it all be enough. “You—”

“They took you from the barnyard, didn’t they? Took you and tucked you into soft sheets with a pillow for your head, and none of them understood how much you missed the scratch of hay.

“Sad to say I overlooked it too, pig. When I came back and saw you in the finery they’d dressed you in, I thought, well of course he’d prefer it that way. But you don’t, do you? You want to be back where you belong, naked in the hay at my feet.”

John looked at Sherlock looking at him.

“Come.” Sherlock patted his own thigh, and John kept himself from keening by the barest of margins.

“Come and be where you belong.”

John _wanted_ , so deeply it might never stop, and still something was keeping him back. 

Sherlock’s eyes hardened, and when he spoke, his tone left no room for argument. “I don’t do relationships, never will, but I promise you will always be mine and I will _never_ leave my pig behind again.”

It was like strings being cut, like heavy-duty painkillers finally kicking in, and John staggered to the throne and collapsed on Sherlock’s legs. He melted into position, knees on the ground, temple on Sherlock’s thigh, torso pressed against Sherlock’s calves.

“Brand me?” he asked.

Sherlock scratched, none too gently, behind John’s ear. “You don’t need a brand, John; you’re already mine. But, yes, if you agree, I will brand you.”

Eyes closed, smiling, exactly where he belonged, John was ready to share his other desires. “Later I want an ear tag and nose ring too.”

“Do you need to be stopped from rooting?” Sherlock asked, but he was only kidding. His pig would never cause problems like that.


End file.
